Blood Has A Sick Way Of Turning On People
by Lehana Nirvei
Summary: Hermione is in a new essence. Her world has diminished, and living is pointless. Yet she does it anyway. Why, do you ask? Years in Mordre does things to you.


**DC:** I own nothing you recognize.

**_Before you read_**, I'd like to mention that I **hate** it when people make Hermione **evil,** or make her **weak,** or make her a **slutty prostitute.** I'm trying to give her a**relatable**hard **mask **in a changed world. I acknowledge I'm not a good writer yet, but I'm working on it. Your reviews would help.

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She slipped on her strapless, black leather, quite short, immaculately designed dress. Sitting on the edge of her bed, Hermione painstakingly slipped on the morbid black fishnets and stilletos. Her hair, dyed black now for two years, fell in long, lavish twists and tumbles to her lower back, ends tipped in a frosty white dye. Red contacts replaced her honey-brown eyes, and naturally pink lips were painted a glossy black. Her skin was now pale, like a body carved from marble. 

_She ran a finger down the pale chest infront of her, completely oblivious to who it was. The perfect muscles not bulging, but lean and thin a perfect navel, a simple, sexy, perfect line of hair receeding into his pants. The sweat beaded on placid flesh, a salty sweetness to her tastes, the enticing sense of breath on her neck, of a hand on her thigh. A cry in the night._

Hermione looked in the mirror, recalling that infathomable dream she'd had since she'd been thirteen. Always the same. The same whispers, the exact same thoughts, and the exact same mental pictures in chronological order.

Just the way she liked them.

Some say dreams haunt people, some say they are the only paradise mankind can create. But who's to say who makes dreams? If mankind creates it, then why would it haunt someone? If a person makes their own dreams, they wouldn't haunt. If a person didn't make their own dreams, they would. If a paradise was capable by a vision during unconciousness, then who's to say it doesn't exist beyond the day we are fully, always, and perfectly unconcious?

She'd give anything do be mortally unconcious. Just for once, with one wish, one choice. If she chose to go back, she'd be sucked in further. Always in pain. That was her saying. The tatoo on her hip bone in French. Toujours en douleur.

She ran a hand through her mass of hair before sighing and charming her fake, faux vamp fangs. Mediocre, she knew, but they were so perfectly transfigured, and her body so languid with these past years, anybody could have mistaken her for the fake legend so thoroughly wrought out. Vampires never fed on humans anymore. Not without reason anyway. Their numbers were receeding as time went on, causing the vampires to be of little help. They'd be redeemed soon, she knew. One way or another.

Stepping into the cold damp streets of midnight Mordre, Hermione placed one step before the other in a nonchalant grace, looking over the passersby with a cynical eye. Since four years ago, she'd turned from an idealist into a cynic, all with the simple flick of a wand, a cut of a knife, and a vial to the mouth. And a little hair dye. Truly, it could do wonders.

Arriving at her Master's nightclub, Hermione flipped her mode into calm and stoic, turning her title to Shariani the Silent.

The music rushed over her like a sudden wave, typhooning her senses into mush. She closed her eyes, taking in the heat of bodies, pressing flush against each other, heady scent of liquor and sweet sweat, thrum, pulse, dialated beings twirling in a sense of nonexistence. Gone. Poise. Her companions.

There was a gentle rush as her Master appeared by her side, only three inches taller than herself. "You are prompt."

Looking sidelong at her Bonded, Shariani blinked slowly and turned her gaze back to the barbaric, erotic, sense-proned bodies.

"Ahh, I've yet to get you to speak."

_Hence the name, fuckwit._

"Drinks." He snapped impatiently, obviously upset of her upperhand in the situation. Not only is the sweetest song silence, but it's one of the best political sways. She followed him to the bar, vibrant lights sliding along her vision in a stream of color. Neons and the shine of the counter distracted her for a moment, before she raised a hand and sat at the only vacant seat, beside her Master.

A crystal chalice slid down the counter, undoubtedly from Corner, her old business acquaintance who was well aware of her silent purposes, and she lithely lifted it from the bar and sipped mutely.

"You will follow through, no?" Her master's heavily accented voice came from behind her ear.

She nodded.

"And you will do it with you skill, not your body, correct?"

Again, she nodded.

" His death is imminent, then. Tomorrow, we will set forth. Sevyni will accompany you to the fort, under the Rassailna, but will go no further. Understood?"

A nod.

"Then I will give you the bonds now, as long as you give me something in exchange."

Of course... Let me do your dirty work, like normal, then rape me, like normal, then pay me, like normal, then rape me again. Sigh. Joy.

**( I might go into detail here, but for now, it has been omitted. If you'd like me to add it, please say so. For now, I'm leaving off here, until I put together another chappie.)**


End file.
